


over and over and over and over again

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Jaskier gets hurt protecting Geralt. Specifically, hishandsget hurt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 635





	over and over and over and over again

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier would do it again, and again, and again.

Geralt was fighting _something_ \- Jaskier hadn’t bothered to listen to most of the details - and he was winning, because he _always_ won. Jaskier watched from the sidelines, a silent spectator, already constructing a new song in his head.

But then the unthinkable happened; the monster pinned Geralt to the ground. Jaskier wouldn’t have been worried but his sword was nowhere to be seen. His eyes darted around and spotted it, a few feet away.

His heart thumped loudly in his chest. He swallowed his fear and fucking ran.

Geralt yelled something that sounded _suspiciously_ like “stay the fuck away!” but Jaskier just ran faster. He leaned down without stopping, grabbing Geralt’s sword ( _fuck_ , it was heavy), and rushed toward the monster.

The monster turned toward him. Jaskier’s heart caught in the back of his throat.

He tossed the sword, Geralt grabbed it, the monster opened its mouth.

Red, _hot_. Jaskier barely registered what was happening: fire from between sharp teeth. He reached up, protecting his face - instinct more than anything - and closed his eyes. Sudden pain, the smell of flesh burning, the thump of a body.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice, right there. “Jaskier, open your - _fuck_.”

He opened his eyes, slowly, and let out a sob. Geralt grabbed his wrists, studying his hands. His hands shook. Surprisingly, the pain wasn’t as bad as the sight of his hands, blackened and raw.

“Fuck,” Geralt repeated. Jaskier took a gasping breath. No, no, _no_. “Jaskier,” he said, looking up and tugging him closer. He was covered in blood and guts. Normally Jaskier would’ve push him away if he tried touching him, but in that moment the solid weight of Geralt’s arms was a comfort. “Calm down, take a deep breath.”

Jaskier could barely feel his hands. “I - Geralt, I can’t - “

“Shh,” he shushed, brushing a hand down his back.

Jaskier buried his face in Geralt’s shoulder, sobbing openly and loudly. He would’ve preferred if it’d been his face - which was saying something; Jaskier wasn’t shallow, but he liked his face very much. He tried to curl his fingers, but they were stiff and raw.

“Geralt, Geralt,” he sobbed, at a loss for words.

“Shh,” he said again.

Geralt was trying to be comforting, he knew, but it wasn’t helping. He didn’t _understand_. He pulled back, eyes wet. “My hands are _ruined_ , Geralt,” he said through a few broken sobs. “If I can’t play, I’d rather - “

“Don’t say it,” he interrupted firmly.

Jaskier sniffed. Geralt pulled him closer again, placing a hand on the back of his head, scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Your hands aren’t ruined,” he said, but the words fell flat. “We’ll find a solution.”

Jaskier didn’t believe him, not for a second, and the worst part? He’d do it again, and again, and _again_ if it meant saving Geralt.

***

Jaskier kind of blacked out after that. Not literally; he wasn’t _asleep_ , but everything moved around him in slow motion, dark and unimportant. He knew he was on the back of Roach. He knew they were moving, traveling through the woods, but he didn’t bother asking why.

His hands were still shaking. He didn’t look at them, couldn’t stomach the sight.

His career was ruined. His _life_ was _ruined_. Geralt was silent. He was never much of a conversationalist, but normally Jaskier would speak enough for the both of them.

Not today. He slumped, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s back.

“You’ll be okay,” Geralt said roughly.

Jaskier wanted to reply, but he couldn’t. He just nodded, silent.

He would never be okay again.

***

They stopped for the night. Geralt led him through the woods to a stream, rushing with life. Jaskier’s eyes suddenly overflowed with tears. Geralt barely caught him before he fell, holding him. Jaskier sobbed and sobbed; Geralt patiently held him through it, rubbing his back.

Finally, he stopped, feeling numb.

“Come on,” he heard the other man say, uncharacteristically soft.

Geralt led him to a rock and he sat obediently. Geralt ducked his own hands – his perfect, _working_ fucking hands – in the water before returning. He gently cleaned Jaskier’s hands, who winced at the pain and stared at the corner of Geralt’s mouth, a welcomed distraction.

“Look,” he said.

Jaskier didn’t want to, but he did; his hands looked better than he originally thought, at least. But they were still weak and raw. He tried curling his fingers, but the pain was still too much.

“I told you,” he said, “you’ll be okay.” He sounded confident. Jaskier wished he felt the same way.

Geralt reached up, then, and brushed some hair out of his face. Jaskier looked into his eyes, soft and worried. His heart lurched at the sight. He had wanted Geralt to look at him like that for years, but not out of pity. _Never_ out of pity.

“I feel very conflicted,” he continued, an odd quirk to his lips.

Jaskier sniffled. “What?” he asked, quiet and a little rough from not speaking for hours.

“You saved my life,” he replied, “but I kind of want to kill you right now for being so fucking _reckless_.”

Jaskier barked out a laugh that surprised even himself. He kept laughing, unable to stop, and Geralt wrapped his arms around him again. “I’m not sorry,” he said through the wet laughter.

Geralt rubbed his back, “I know.”

***

Over the next few days, they kept traveling. Jaskier never asked any questions. He trusted Geralt.

On the fifth day, they stopped again. Jaskier’s hands were still fucked up, but he could slightly curl his fingers again. Baby steps.

Geralt returned with a deer. _Dinner_. Jaskier watched silently as he prepared and roasted it.

“Here,” he said.

Jaskier reached for the stick, but his fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. He flushed out of embarrassment and anger. Geralt gently pulled a chunk of meat off the stick and held it up to Jaskier’s mouth. His cheeks turned even redder.

“Fuck off,” he snarled, looking away.

Geralt was silent for a long, still moment. “I’m trying to help you, Jaskier,” he said softly. “You have to eat.”

Jaskier’s stomach churned uncomfortably. He shoved his hands in his lap, hiding them from sight. He _knew_ that. Really. “I just want to - ”

“Don’t,” he said. “I told you not to say that kind of stuff.”

Jaskier breathed out, hard, through his nose. “Fuck, fine.” He turned back, lips parting. Geralt fed him the chunk of meat, and he chewed quickly. It was warm and tasty. His eyes prickled with tears, again. Fuck, he was so tired of crying.

They continued like that until, finally, there was no meat left on the stick. Geralt started to eat his own serving. Jaskier watched him.

“What would you do,” he started, “if you could… no longer, you know. Do what you do.”

Geralt shrugged, “I don’t know,” he answered, honest as ever. “But you have _many_ traits, Jaskier,” he continued, surprising him, “and your stubbornness is one of the better ones. You will never let anything - or _anyone_ \- stop you from doing what you love.”

Jaskier nodded, sniffing. “I’m sorry,” he said, barely a whisper. “You’ve been helping me, and I’ve just been so fucking ungrateful. I don’t – ” Sniffling again, he glanced down at his hands. “I don’t know what I’d do without your help. Thank you, Geralt.”

“I’m not helping you out of some moral obligation,” he replied, a bit slow. “I’m doing it because I want to.”

Jaskier smiled, small and sincere.

***

Jaskier’s hands healed, bit by bit, as they continued traveling but they were still not back to normal and he didn’t even _attempt_ to play. His lute sat, secure and untouched, on his back as they traveled out of the woods and through a small town.

Geralt seemingly had a destination in mind as he tugged on Roach’s reins, leading her.

Finally, they stopped in front of what looked like an abandoned little cottage. Geralt jumped off first before helping Jaskier down.

“Um.” He shifted on his feet. “Not to be picky, but of _all_ the places…”

Geralt tied Roach up before rejoining him. “Just wait,” he said, leading him to the door. He knocked, once, and the door opened by itself.

Jaskier was so confused, and amazed, that for the first time in over a week he wasn’t even thinking about his hands. They walked in, and Jaskier was surprised by the size of the living room.

He realized it was magic only when Yennefer walked in through a door to the left.

“And what do I – ” but she cut herself off, eyeing Jaskier’s hands. “Hmm.”

Jaskier was not Yennefer’s biggest fan, they all knew that, but in that moment he wanted to bow at her feet. Thankfully, Geralt stopped him from doing anything too embarrassing.

“We need your help,” Geralt said, stepping forward. “Please.”

Yennefer raised a dark eyebrow. “Okay,” she said, easily enough. “Follow me.” Without waiting for a reply, she walked back through the door. Jaskier hesitated. Geralt grabbed his arm, nodding curtly, and they both followed her.

***

Jaskier sat in a chair while Yennefer looked at his hands. Geralt stood a few feet away, arms folded over his chest. “Well?” he prompted impatiently.

She rolled her eyes, “Your hands will be fine,” she said, and Jaskier let out a disbelieving laugh. “But certain things might be harder than before,” she continued, knowingly. “I can help with the pain and even the healing process, but the rest falls on your shoulders, Jaskier.”

Jaskier watched as she turned away and rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a few things.

“Um, I don’t understand,” he said when she turned back to him. “What do you mean?”

Yennefer opened a vial and poured some of the contents – thick and clear – in the palm of her hand. The liquid glowed when she muttered something under her breath. “I mean,” she said, smearing the liquid over his burns, “Magic depends heavily on the person. In a lot of ways, magic _isn’t_ real.” She stopped and grabbed something else, crushed leaves. She placed them over his burns. “If you believe in it, the magic will work. If you don’t, the magic will fail.”

Jaskier stared at her hands as she worked. “Oh.”

Geralt stepped forward with heavy footsteps. “Stop scaring him,” he said gruffly.

She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. “I’m not scaring him,” she said without looking. “I’m helping him.” Finished, she took a step back. “This might hurt, but only for a moment.”

Jaskier glanced at Geralt. He nodded, once, and he nodded back. “Okay.”

Closing her eyes, she lifted her hands and recited something under her breath. Her fingertips glowed, and suddenly the pain was back, full force, blinding him. Jaskier let out a gasp of pain, and Geralt was at his side in seconds, gripping his shoulder. Then, just like that, the pain was over. He took a shaky breath.

Jaskier glanced at his hands, eyes wet with tears. They looked… _better,_ but far from perfect. Most of the burns had been healed, at least, but he still struggled curling his fingers or moving them certain ways. He was thankful, truly, but also disappointed.

Geralt squeezed his shoulder, a silent comfort.

“It’s the best I can do,” she said, a bit of sweat on her forehead. “But like I said, your hands should heal the rest of the way on their own. Just be patient.”

Jaskier was not a patient man. “Thanks.”

Yennefer shifted, dark curls bouncing. “You can both stay as long as you need.” Jaskier looked up, genuinely surprised by the offer. “Until you’re healed up, at least.”

Geralt did not look happy. “I don’t think – ”

Jaskier reached up. His hand wasn’t shaking. Baby steps, but it was still something. He lightly placed his hand on Geralt’s arm. Geralt startled, mouth snapping shut.

“We will,” Jaskier said, mostly because he was exhausted and a proper bed sounded nice. “Thank you.”

***

Yennefer had enchanted the cottage, as she was prone to do; there were dozens of rooms, but they ended up in the same one, anyway. Neither of them discussed it. Like most parts of their relationship, it was decided naturally. Jaskier didn’t want to be by himself, and somehow Geralt sensed that.

He sat in the bed, resting against the headboard. Geralt sat near the foot of the bed, cleaning his swords.

“You’ll have to try again at some point,” Geralt said. He didn’t need to specify what he was talking about. They both knew.

Jaskier glanced at his bag – holding his beloved lute – tucked away in a dark corner of the room. He didn’t reply. Geralt didn’t push.

***

A few days passed. Jaskier’s hands were improving, slow but steady. He could eat without help, at least. Again, baby steps. Yennefer was being unexpectedly kind – in her own way; she checked his hands once a day, gifted him ointments to help with any of the leftover burns and scars.

He never touched his lute, didn’t even try. Geralt didn’t ask again.

Finally, a week later, as they were sitting together in the bed —

“I want to try,” he said, bottom lip trembling. He didn’t specify what he was talking about, because they both still knew.

Geralt nodded. “Do you want me to…”

Jaskier stared down at his hands, clasped together in his lap. He knew he couldn’t keep putting it off; he had to try again. Music wasn’t just something he did for money. It was his passion. “Yes,” he said finally. “Please.”

Climbing out of the bed, he walked over and retrieved Jaskier’s bag from the dark corner, returning with it. He even opened the bag for him and pulled his lute out, carefully placing it between Jaskier’s spread legs. Jaskier was still, unmoving, for a few long minutes.

Again, Geralt did not push.

Taking a shaky breath, he glanced at the other man. “What if I can’t play?”

“You’ll wait and try again,” he replied instantly.

Jaskier swallowed around the lump in his throat. “No, I mean… what if I can’t play, like… ever again?”

Geralt frowned and shifted, wrapping an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier wanted to cry, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to kiss him. He did none of them. “If Yen can’t do something about it,” he started, a determined set to his jaw, “we’ll travel the whole Continent until we find someone who can.”

It was a stupid thing to say; Jaskier knew Yennefer was one of the most talented sorceresses out there. But he appreciated the sentiment, anyway.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s cheek. Neither of them moved or said anything.

Finally, he pulled away. “Okay, um.” Jaskier slowly reached out, positioning his hands. They shook, not from the injury but from fear. Geralt rubbed his arm, and his hands stopped trembling.

Sometimes he wondered if Geralt knew the power he had over him. Probably not.

Jaskier played one cord, and suddenly he was sobbing. It was nothing – an amateur could do it – but he couldn’t stop the tears. He played another, and another, until finally his fingers ached and he had to take a break. Geralt turned him toward him, gentle and silent, and Jaskier sobbed in the crook of his neck for what felt like an hour.

***

Weeks turned to months. Jaskier practiced nightly with Geralt always watching, always comforting.

He was getting better, but Yennefer hadn’t lied: things were harder. He had to think harder about every little movement of his fingers, and sometimes it still wasn’t enough. His fingers ached often, but the ointment Yennefer gifted him helped a lot.

On top of that, Geralt had started massaging his hands every night after he stopped practicing.

They were usually silent when he did it, but not tonight. “I want to travel again.”

Geralt stilled, shoulders tensing. “Do you think you should?” he asked. It wasn’t spoken with condescension or anything. He was truly just asking, and Jaskier knew he would respect his answer. They had gotten better at that over these last few months; respecting and listening to each other.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly as Geralt started gently massaging his hands again. “But we can’t stay here forever, even if Yennefer is being unexpectedly accommodating.”

Geralt paused again. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “It’s weird, right?”

Jaskier smiled briefly. “I understand what you see in her,” he admitted quietly. Yennefer was a force to be reckoned with, beautiful and powerful with a sharp wit, but most of all she could be surprisingly kind – _if_ you were on her good side.

“Hmm,” he replied. “ _Saw,”_ he corrected, pointedly not looking at Jaskier.

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Oh.”

“I don’t think we were ever a good match,” Geralt continued lowly. He looked up at Jaskier from under thick eyelashes. “Not as lovers, at least.”

Jaskier nodded. He had to ask. “Who do you think _would_ be a good match,” he asked, “for you?”

Geralt’s eyes flickered to his mouth. “Still deciding,” he answered finally.

“Oh. Okay.” Jaskier licked his lips; Geralt watched him, quiet. “Well, let me know when you figure it out.”

***

Yennefer hugged him. Jaskier would’ve been surprised – _before_ – but now he wasn’t. He hugged her back, burying his face in her hair. She smelled of lilac and gooseberries. It was unexpectedly comforting. She pulled back.

“Don’t be afraid to visit,” she said, sounding almost sheepish.

Jaskier smiled, small and sincere. He wouldn’t have survived without her, and Geralt. “We will.”

Yennefer pulled out another vial of ointment and tucked it in his bag. “Good luck.”

He nodded and stepped back. Yennefer looked at Geralt, expectantly. He tilted his chin in the air.

“Thank you, Yen,” he said, “for everything.”

She smiled, slow. “I’d say ‘ _anytime_ ’ but frankly I am tired of you boys hurting yourselves.” She stepped forward. “Do better.” They shared a look, a silent conversation that Jaskier had no interest in picking apart – for once. As if satisfied, she nodded and hugged Geralt, brief and tight. She whispered in his ear, “Take care of him, and yourself.”

Jaskier looked away, smiling to himself.

***

Things continued like that for weeks, months, until finally Jaskier said, “I want to try performing again.”

It was early morning, and they were staying at the local inn of a small town. Jaskier was standing by the door, holding his bag to his chest and looking impossibly small, but determined. Geralt stood up from the bed and opened his mouth, closed it. Jaskier could tell he was struggling not to say something.

“I’ve gotten better,” he reminded him gently, “and I’ve been, uh, working on a new song.”

Geralt walked over and gently took Jaskier’s bag. He placed it on the floor and took Jaskier’s hands. He squeezed lightly; doing so no longer caused him any pain.

His hands were almost fully healed, but badly scarred, scars that would likely never heal, not even with magic. Geralt’s stomach lurched at the sight, feeling guilty and angry at the world. _He_ was the one meant to be littered with scars, not Jaskier.

“Hey,” Jaskier said softly. “I’m okay. I – I think I can do it.”

Geralt brushed his thumbs over the back of Jaskier’s hands, over some of the nastiest scars. “Okay.”

Jaskier smiled and squeezed back, “You’ll cheer me on, right?” he asked, only half-joking. He never had been good at hiding his emotions.

“Come on,” he said in way of a reply, feeling unexpected flustered. He grabbed Jaskier’s bag, carrying it for him, as they left the inn and walked across the town to the local tavern.

***

Jaskier stood in front of the fireplace, all eyes on him. The back of his throat was scratchy. He cleared it. Geralt sat near him, jaw clenched. He looked ready to run over there at any moment. Slowly, Jaskier addressed the patrons, not very many of them, mostly older men with a few women.

“Um, I haven’t played properly in - uh - months,” he said. “If I mess up, sorry.”

No reaction; most of the patrons weren’t even looking at him. All for the better, really.

Jaskier cleared his throat again and strummed the first cord. Geralt sat up a little straighter. Suddenly, he felt confident. Like he could do anything as long as Geralt never took his eyes off him. He continued strumming, fingers only a little shaky, then he started to sing.

He sang about the worst months of his life, of clawing his way out of despair. Of Yennefer, and Geralt.

He was crying. He didn’t stop, just sang louder. Most of the patrons turned to look. Jaskier barely noticed; he was too busy staring at Geralt, pouring his heart out – all the things he wished he could say.

Then, it was over.

No one clapped. No one did or said much of anything. But Geralt –

He stood up and crossed the room. Jaskier smiled, feeling shy all of a sudden. He wonder if Geralt understood what he was trying to say.

“You were amazing,” he said.

Jaskier almost laughed/sobbed. Maybe both. “We should, um, get out of here.”

They left. Geralt carried Jaskier’s bag for him again.

“I think I’ve decided,” Geralt said. There were clouds in the sky. It was probably going to rain soon. Jaskier was so focused on the sky that he almost missed Geralt’s confession. He stopped, and so did Geralt. He feigned relaxation the best he could, like his heart wasn’t about to beat right out of his chest and land at their feet.

Jaskier rubbed the fingers of one hand with the other, a habit he had picked up after the incident. “Oh?”

Geralt stepped forward, closer to him. Jaskier’s heart thumped louder and faster. He wondered if he could hear it. Probably. “After these last few months,” he said, speaking slowly, “I think I’ve realized _we_ make a pretty good match.”

“Really?” he asked breathlessly. He kept rubbing his fingers. “I feel like I’ve been saying that for years.”

“Probably,” he admitted with an amused quirk of his lips. “You… feel the same way.” It wasn’t a question.

Jaskier swallowed thickly, afraid to reply. If he told him the truth, especially out of song, there was no backtracking. This was it – the moment that mattered, and he was fucking too terrified to say anything. Geralt reached out and took one of his hands. He took over rubbing his fingers, gently. Jaskier wasn’t going to be a coward, not this time.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

Geralt smiled slowly, the beginning of a beautiful thing.


End file.
